The Same but Different
by PuffPiece
Summary: AU from the beginning. Fair warning for permanent injury. Dean never made it to Sam. And now Sam has to find Dean. The brothers get to know each other again after several years' separation, finding some things never change while some things do.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

Author's Note: Posting the initial chapter now as a tester. Let me know if this story warrants continuation (or not).

o()o()o()o(O)o()o()o()o

 _Dean._

 _Chained._

 _Alone._

Sam lets out a prolonged moan, hands clutching the head that's threatening to split open and leak brain matter all over his pillow, eyes scrunched tightly in a futile attempt to keep the early morning sunshine from adding further insult to his already overly sensitive brain.

He takes a couple of slow, deep breaths, feeling somewhat victorious when he's able to keep last night's fajitas in their proper place, the churning in his gut warring with the cold film of sweat slicking his skin for the title of "second worst side effect" of his visions. The first, of course, being the headaches.

It doesn't take too much longer until Sam feels like he's merely suffering the effects of having had a few too many the night before and less like his head's about to explode, allowing him to work himself upright to slump against the headboard of his bed, hand snaking out to grab the small notebook he's taken to keeping on the little bedside stand for just such an occasion.

He jots down a few quick descriptors, trying to capture the images and feelings before they completely disappear, the hastily scribbled words causing little more than frustration as he takes in the entirety of his paltry list.

Abandoned warehouse.

Human-like creature.

Loss.

Danger.

Dean.

Chained.

Alone.

And while it may not give him much to go on, his list pokes at his still tender brain, telling him that the little voice that's been whispering in his ear (and sounds an awful lot like his obnoxious older brother, come to think of it) might actually know what's it's talking about.

Telling him that Dean's in trouble.

That something's not right.

That he's alone.

And that Sam needs to find him.

o()o()o()o(O)o()o()o()o

So, Sam does what Sam does best. Research. Lots of it.

He puts together a chart with the scant information he's amassed, cross-referencing it with his brother's last known locations (which is relatively easy once he's hacked into his brother's cell phone and checked in with a couple of the hunters he still keeps in contact with on rare occasion), and comes up with a short list of possible locations where Dean might be. A few additional fake inquiries tell him that Dean's already come and gone from several of the locations, leaving a trail of grateful although nonpaying customers in his wake.

He calls Dean's phone for the millionth time, uttering a string of curses when he gets voice mail yet again, the blunt message of his brother telling him to "Talk to me" doing nothing to ease the gnawing of his insides that could very well turn into an ulcer soon if Sam's not careful.

And so, he decides that there's not much left to do but to physically go do something.

Like find Dean.

He gives his boss and coworkers some flimsy excuse about having an emergency in the family (it could very well be the truth, Sam rationalizes), surprising them all since they didn't even know he had any living relatives.

He's been working as a floor manager for a local tech store since Jess' death a little over a year ago, his mind not having been up to the task of finishing out his classes at the time, the drive to complete college having gotten up and left sometime over the subsequent months.

His mind also hadn't been up to the task of filling Dean and his dad in on his life over the past couple of years either, for that matter, a thought that almost makes him reconsider his actions, figuring that Dean will probably rip him a new one when he hears the depths of Sam's pent up secrets.

Like the fact that he had been going to ask Jess to marry him. And the fact that he'd begun having those damned visions several months before her death. Not to mention the fact that he'd actually _seen_ her burning on the ceiling before it happened. And that once that horrific vision had finally stopped, he'd started seeing Dean chained up somewhere, something "off" just enough about his brother's image to leave him feeling unsettled, yet not able to see enough to figure out what's not quite right. Besides the fact that he's chained up alone somewhere, that is.

Sam leaves his roommate a hastily scribbled note, not figuring he owes the near-stranger much else; he'd been living with Jess at the time of the fire and just couldn't handle moving in with any of his well-meaning friends, needing time and space to process what had happened and what his future held, not to mention the weirdness of the visions, and had found his current living situation through a friend of a friend of a friend.

He packs a couple of T shirts and an extra pair of jeans, his practically having grown up on the road holding him in good stead when it comes to traveling lightly, and before he can second-guess himself, he's hopped the bus to the car rental agency, high tailing it to the place a couple hours north of his current location in sunny California where he thinks he'll find Dean.

He's not quite sure yet if he hopes he's right or wrong.

o()o()o()o(O)o()o()o()o

Sam slowly makes his way into the abandoned building that best matches his visions, hairs standing at attention on the back of his neck, heart racing in anticipation of what he may find (or not). He's equal parts dismayed and comforted to find that his body remembers all too well how to do this – both the hunting portion of job and, he hopes, the saving portion. He may have been out of the game for a while, but with their upbringing, it's a lot like riding a bicycle. Except the bicycle could kill you.

And he finds that he's more than a little disappointed at how easy it is to take down the creature that is his brother's captor. Nothing more than a brief scuffle with the human-appearing thing that just can't keep its mouth shut about capturing _The_ Dean Winchester. Of course, the amount of rage filling Sam's body might have had something to do with just how quickly the creature was dispatched of.

Chest heaving with a mixture of adrenaline and emotion, he sets off down the otherwise empty hall, his brother's name echoing against the walls as he tries to locate the target of his rescue mission.

"Sam?" comes a faint reply, the tone equal parts "what the hell are you doing here" and "thank God the cavalry's arrived".

The brothers engage in an impromptu version of Marco Polo, using each other's names as homing beacons, Sam following Dean's voice until he finally sees his brother across the large open room of the warehouse, seated on the concrete floor, chained to one of the sizable pillars that's holding up the ceiling.

"Dean!" Sam cries, hustling over to where his brother sits, head tipped back against the pillar, expressions of chagrin and relief warring on his face.

"Hey Sammy, long time no see," says Dean, giving his brother a wry smile.

Sam's Bitch Face emerges, equal parts annoyance at his brother's use of his childhood name and the nonchalance his brother seems to have for his own well-being. "It's Sam," he says shortly, pulling the lock pick set out of his pocket.

He makes quick work of freeing Dean's right arm, then scoots himself around to free his brother's other arm. And stops dead in his tracks, breath catching in his chest, eyes wide at the sight in front of him. Because it turns out he doesn't need to free Dean's left arm.

He doesn't have one.

Instead, the left sleeve of Dean's flannel overshirt is tucked into itself, ending well above where his brother's elbow should be.

Sam practically chokes, his questions all getting lodged together in his throat in an effort to make themselves known, none of them actually making it out into the chilly air of the musty warehouse.

"It's okay Sam," Dean says quietly, correctly reading the shock on his brother's face. "I'm okay. Just lost about 10 pounds since you last saw me," he says, voice thick with his own emotion, moving the stump of his left arm enough for Sam to know where his weight loss came from.

He holds out his right hand in a gesture that brings Sam back to himself, providing the necessary counter-balance for Dean to hoist himself to his feet, stretching and groaning as he works the kinks out of his back, shaking out his right arm and flexing his wrist in relief at having the cuff removed.

"What?" Sam croaks, "How?" unable to form any additional words.

"Let's get out of here, okay?" Dean says, nodding towards the door. "Look," says Dean, letting out a weary sigh. "I promise I'll fill you in. Just not here, alright?"

Sam gives a weak nod, trailing after his older brother like a lost puppy as Dean leads him back out into daylight.

And towards a reality he's not sure he's ready to face.

 _ **To Be Continued… (if you say so)**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

Author's Note: So glad that you guys are interested to see where this goes! And FYI – because these chapters are so stinking short, my plan is to update midweek and weekend.

o()o()o()o(O)o()o()o()o

As Sam sits idly in the passenger's seat of the Impala, he can't help but notice how much hasn't changed since he left several years ago, even when so much has.

The same Impala – Dean's baby that he cherishes more than Sam thinks is really healthy.

The same music – his brother's love of mullet rock still a point of contention between the brothers.

The same Dean – still stoically silent when it comes to his own well-being while making sure his little brother is holding up okay.

And for the most part, he is. He's holding his own. He just can't quite wrap his mind around the differences quite yet.

Because now, Dean has to reach across himself to open and close the driver's side car door.

And when he wants to annoy Sam by cranking up his crappy music, he has to brace the steering wheel with his thigh while his right hand's occupied with the knobs on the dashboard.

Not to mention the fact that while his brother still rests his left arm on the ledge of the car window, it's now a sight that makes Sam (and more than one passing motorist) look twice.

So, it's with a mixture of relief and resignation on the part of both brothers that Dean pulls the Impala into an empty parking space at the motel that had been his home base for the past couple of days, before his rather unanticipated captivity, that is.

The older Winchester makes his way out of the car, stopping at the trunk to pull out the duffel bag of weapons he'd not gotten the chance to use before he'd been so rudely interrupted by his hijacking, looping his right arm through the handles as Sam sidles up next to him. Before he can slam the lid closed, he hears Sam suck in a strangled breath, a sure sign that his little brother caught sight of the hook prosthesis lying rather benignly on the false bottom of the trunk.

"Dean?" Sam asks, eyes round, forehead furrowed when Dean slams the lid closed, leaving his prosthetic behind as he heads towards the motel room.

"Yeah," he says, not convinced he has the energy right now to deal with Sam's never-ending questions. The memory of the full force of his brother's inquisitiveness had ebbed over their years apart, but he's pretty sure he's about to get hit by it in spades, an extra strength dose of probing and prodding regarding their current situation combined with several years of pent-up inquiries.

"Don't you want…," Sam trails off, vaguely gesturing to the contents of the trunk.

"Nah, not right now. Don't use it all that much. It's hot, uncomfortable; get along fine without it most of the time," Dean says, leaving the motel door open behind him as he disappears into the room.

Sam stays rooted to the spot for a couple of seconds before finally getting his body to cooperate with his brain, which is telling him to "get in there and find out what the hell is going on", following Dean's previous movements into the room that makes him question if he ever really left at all.

Because something else that hasn't really changed is his brother's taste in cheesy themed motels.

He guesses the fact that they're in southern Oregon is the reasoning behind the wallpaper choice – faux woods gracing the walls in something that wars between peaceful meditation and claustrophobic acid trip with Big Foot as the tour guide, bedspreads of mossy green chenille, lampstands and furniture made of plastic resin but fashioned to look like tree branches.

Classy.

"Uhh," Dean says, nose wrinkling as he gets a whiff of himself while shrugging off the weapons bag. "I'm rank. Sit tight here – I need to go get myself minty fresh."

His brother's words bring Sam back to the present, back to all the questions, back to the raw emotions that are threatening to bubble over at any second.

He does his best not to stare but he can't quite manage to tear his eyes away from his big brother, watching as he goes through the process of getting himself undressed.

Toeing off his boots like he's seen him do a thousand times before, recalling his brother saying you never know when you'll need to bolt in the middle of the night Sammy, best to just keep the shoes tied.

Getting his socks off of his feet in a move they'd both perfected decades ago, using the heel of one foot to step on the toe of the other, then pulling the foot free before flinging the sock over towards his boots.

But that's where the past ends and the present begins.

Because the way Dean works himself out of his shirts is a far cry from what Sam's used to seeing his brother do.

He watches, eyes transfixed, lump threatening to block his airway, as Dean uses his right hand to remove the flannel from his stump, bringing the now freed left sleeve around behind himself to his right side and tucking it between his thighs in order to help him pull the right sleeve off in a manner that seems way too practiced for Sam's liking. The sleeve of Dean's gray T shirt covers the remainder of his left arm, the residual limb only making an appearance once his brother has removed the shirt by grabbing it from behind his neck and pulling it swiftly over his head.

And that's when it hits Sam full in the gut. The sight of his brother standing in front of him, rooting through his personal duffel bag with his right hand, no doubt searching for passably clean clothing, his left arm ending in a smooth rounded stump about halfway down to where his elbow used to be, making small residual movements as if it's trying to help his right hand in its fruitless search for clean laundry.

"Breathe, man," Dean says, catching sight of his little brother's pale face, eyes wide, as he continues to stare at Dean's residual limb.

Dean's words are enough to break the tractor beam-like pull of Dean's arm on Sam, causing him to jump like he's been caught doing something red-handed, the pallor of his face replaced by a blossoming flush as he realizes what he'd been doing.

"Sorry, I just…" Sam stammers, eyes now trying to land anywhere but on Dean's disability.

"Hey," Dean says, snapping his fingers, authoritative older brother voice well trained in bringing Sam back to attention. "Turn that off."

Sam's eyes swivel to his brother's, mouth flapping as he tries to come up with a reply. "What, my face?" he asks when he sees Dean's fingers motioning to his head. "I can't turn my face off Dean," he says with a weak eye roll.

"No dumbass. "That," he says, jabbing again at Dean's head. "That expression. Put it away."

"What are you talking about?" Sam mumbles.

Dean gives him a level stare, eyebrow cocked in his best big brother show of authority. "The pity, Sam. Put it away." He holds up his hand when Sam's lips begin to open. "I saw it Sam. See it every day. Don't need it from you." He turns slightly away but Sam still catches the next words which are said almost under his breath. "Can't take it from you."

o()o()o()o(O)o()o()o()o

Dean gently closes the door of the too-cramped bathroom behind him, not enough energy or ire to give it the slam he'd been considering. He needs to save his strength for the discussion he knows Sam will want to engage in, the litany of questions he knows his little brother has stored up; besides, Sam doesn't really deserve his anger anyway. Not about this. His arm isn't his fault. Nor is Sam's reaction. Because in all fairness, Dean could have done a little bit better job at preparing his little brother for what he'd be seeing.

He snorts at that last thought - the understatement of the year.

Hell, he should have told his brother anything about the past year.

He'd just kept putting it off, thinking he'd get around to it someday. And then some day came and got him captured, necessitating a rescue by his little brother.

Dean narrows his eyes, tucking that question away for a time when he needs to deflect Sam's attention away from himself. How exactly _did_ Sam find him? Or even know to look for him?

He lets those thoughts roll around in his head a little as he gives himself a hard look in the mirror, turns his face left and right, satisfied that the initial take down by the creature won't be leaving any permanent marks, the bruising on his torso barely visible as well. He then turns his attention to his arm, raising his stump and moving his shoulder around in order to ensure that it, too, is in relatively decent working order. Not that there's much working order left, but he's still got be vigilant for infection; he's not looking to lose any more of that arm.

Seeing no new wounds, no signs of skin breakdown, he worms his way out of his jeans and boxers and delights in a hot shower that washes away the grime of the past couple of days, even if it doesn't do much to help his mindset.

Once he's deemed himself as good as he's going to get, he carefully dries himself off, having learned a while back just how much the lack of an arm changes the center of gravity, not to mention the inability to brace oneself in the instance of what would otherwise be a rather innocuous slip.

Clad in the cleanest boxers he'd been able to find, he emerges from the bathroom, a cloud of steam accompanying him, throwing a glance over at Sam, who's slumped in one of the dingy chairs, head resting against the back wall, eyelid cracking open at the sound of Dean returning to the room.

"I'm fine, Sam," Dean says again, trying to head off Sam's worries while he shrugs his way into the passably clean Metallica T shirt he'd pulled out of his duffel before his shower.

"No, Dean," Sam says, leaning forwards to rest his arms on his thighs in the "Intense Sam" posture Dean knows all too well. "You're not. This is not fine," he says, gesturing to Dean's empty sleeve. "You're not fine. I'm not fine. Nothing about this is fine," he says, voice cracking with emotion.

"Alright," Dean sighs, plunking his bag onto the floor before plopping himself down onto the lumpy mattress. "Can I at least get a few minutes of shut eye before we get into this? I haven't really had the most restful past couple of days. Could really use some beauty rest." He angles the rest of his body onto the bed before adding, "So could you. You look like crap."

He gets the desired response, Bitch Face taking the place of Worried Sam, barely trying to keep the smirk off his face as Sam huffs out a sigh before Dean's words hit home, the weight of his own days of research, driving, worry, and revelations suddenly threatening to drag him down into the depths of unconsciousness.

And so Sam makes his way over to the empty bed, wondering if Dean always books a room for two or if he has premonitions of his own, barely having time to shuck off his shoes and stretch out on top of the covers before he succumbs to the sleep that's eluded him for the past couple of weeks.

He'd forgotten how much better he sleeps with Dean's rhythmic breathing in the bed next to him.

 _ **To Be Continued…**_

Author's Note 2: Hang in there – (some) answers to your burning questions coming in the next chapter…


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

Author's Note: I am enjoying each and every review, word of encouragement, and follow that you guys throw my way. Thanks so much for all of your feedback!

o()o()o()o(O)o()o()o()o

"Hey Sleeping Beauty," Dean says, smirking at the rumpled appearance of his little brother. Sam looks like he's de-aged about a decade, reminding Dean of the sleepy teenager he'd have to practically drag out of bed in order to get him to school on time.

Except his hair had never been this unruly and there's no way he'd be able to manhandle his Sasquatch of a brother these days, even with two arms.

"Mmmmmmph," comes Sam's reply, muffled by the arm that he'd slung over his face in an attempt to block out the wadded pieces of paper Dean has been throwing at his head for the last few minutes.

"Come on, man. Up and at 'em," Dean says, finding the one spot on the bottom of Sam's left foot that he knows will cause his brother to freak out and quickly scooting out of reach when Sam reacts as expected, limbs flailing in an attempt to both get away from the source of the unwelcomed insult as well as to land a punch to the offender.

"Time 's it?" Sam mumbles, scrubbing his face while he tries to keep Dean in his sights lest he try for another sneak attack. "What day is it?" he thinks to add, unsure how long he'd been sacked out.

"Seven bells, Sammy. Same day as when you went to sleep. We both got a couple of good hours of shut eye."

"It's Sam," he replies automatically. "Why are you so chipper anyway?" he asks, suddenly suspicious of his big brother's tone as well as his playfulness. He would have been willing to bet that Dean was no more looking forward to their impending heart to heart than he is.

"Time for dinner. Get a move on. Need some food, man. I think I saw a place nearby that has my name written all over it."

"What, disgusting artery-clogged vegetable-averse older brother?" Sam grumbles.

"Hah, hah," replies Dean blandly. "No. Burgers. Beer. Pool. All my favorites."

"Fine," says Sam, his affirmation punctuated by the feral growl that emanates from his own midsection, reminding him that he hasn't eaten anything himself since the previous day. "Just gonna grab a quick shower."

When Sam emerges, freshly washed and ready to try to wheedle some information out of his tough to crack older brother, he's stopped dead in his tracks by another punch to his gut as he takes in the sight of Dean working his arm into his prosthesis before shrugging into the harness that crisscrosses his back and loops over his right shoulder overtop of his T shirt.

"Thought you said you don't use it much," he says, trying for nonchalance but failing miserably.

"I don't," says Dean distractedly, his focus on trying to get his hook through the left sleeve of his flannel shirt before sliding his right arm through the other sleeve. "But I need to get some rehab in tonight. You gonna be okay with it? Not gonna freak you out?"

Sam eyes his brother, sees the real question in his eyes, throws a quick glance to the hook before centering his gaze back on Dean's face and gives a not altogether convincing nod of his head.

"Alright then. Get a move on. Besides," Dean adds, picking up his keys and gesturing for Sam to pick up the pace and get himself dressed, "burgers are a bitch with one hand."

o()o()o()o(O)o()o()o()o

"Alright, Sam", Dean says, eyes narrowed in concentration as he practices picking his beer bottle up off of the table with his hook, his right hand at the ready in case his coordination isn't quite up to snuff, "this is how it's gonna go. We're gonna enjoy our food. I'm gonna answer your questions about this," he says, nodding towards his left side, "and you're gonna answer mine about why you're here. Capisce?"

Sam's thumb takes a break from worrying the label off his own bottle of beer, his eyes swinging up to his brother, flinching just a bit when he sees the single-minded focus evident on Dean's face as he works to use his prosthesis.

"Yeah," he finally manages to eke out, clearing his throat and reiterating his agreement with a firmer voice the second time around.

"Good. Go," Dean says, prompting his brother to begin the inquisition he knows Sam is barely holding in check.

Sam hardly knows where to start, so many questions stumbling over each other, fighting to make it out of his mouth in the search for a satisfactory answer.

So he takes a deep breath and decides to begin with the obvious first question.

"What happened?"

"You mean how did I lose my arm?" Dean asks in clarification, kicking himself slightly at the flinch his straightforward question causes his little brother.

"Yeah."

"Car accident. 'Bout a year ago. Car flipped a couple of times, arm got knocked around and then got trapped. Actually made it to the hospital with it still in one piece, but it turns out it was crushed to hell. Doctors had to take it off a couple of days later."

Dean pauses and looks up from where he'd been absently tracing the edge of the hook with his right index finger, both "arms" resting on the table through the duration of his story, gently nudging Sam's leg under the table. "Come on, man. Breathe," he says.

"Yeah, okay," Sam says blinking a couple of times, taking a swig of his beer before he echoes himself. "Okay." He waits a couple of beats, lets the additional questions swirl around his head before he lets the next one make an appearance.

"Why didn't you tell me, Dean?"

Dean scratches the back of his neck with his right hand, a guilty look ghosting across his face, both in response to his brother's question and the injured tone of his voice.

"Which excuse do you want Sam? 'Cause I've got a bunch of 'em," he says with a humorless laugh. "Didn't want you to know. Didn't want you to worry about me. Didn't want to do anything that would've dragged you back into this life you fought so hard to leave."

"Dean," Sam says in his no-nonsense "come on" tone. "You're my brother. And you lost an arm. I think that's something I deserve to know. Besides, it's not like I wouldn't have found out eventually. Kind of hard to hide," he adds, mumbling his last words.

The brothers are granted a short reprieve by the delivery of their food, Dean signaling for another round of beers as well before working to prop his prosthetic up on the table in order to use the hook to stabilize the left side of his burger.

Sam tries not to watch, eyes focusing on his chicken sandwich instead, biting his bottom lip in an attempt to keep his tangled thoughts to himself.

"What?" Dean says around a mouthful of burger, correctly reading the pained expression on his little brother's face.

"It's just…," Sam trails off, trying to make some sense out of the recent events, chewing on a French fry to try to stimulate his brain activity. He lets out a resigned sigh, shoulders dropping in response, before he continues. "It's just that you seem the same. But different, you know?"

Dean gives him the "no shit, Sherlock" look, the loss of an arm being a pretty big difference.

"But why are you still hunting?"

Dean puts his half-eaten burger down, using his right hand to take a swig of his beer while his prosthetic remains propped up on the table. "Why Sammy? Or how?" he asks with narrowed eyes.

Sam squirms a bit under his older brother's gaze, and mumbles his answer. "Both, I guess."

Dean lets out a sigh of his own, moving his left arm off the table to get it out of Sam's line of sight, and idly twirls a couple of fries through his ketchup. "What else am I gonna do Sammy?" he asks with a shrug, eyes darting up to Sam's face. "It's what I know. It's what I'm good at."

"Yeah, but…" Sam trails off, trying desperately not to let his gaze travel back to Dean's left arm, although with the hook hidden under the table, Dean's left arm looks pretty much like his right.

"I can still hunt, Sam," Dean says, his tone and facial expression taking on a steely countenance at the unoffered challenge of his brother. "Sure it sucks ass sometimes, but when didn't it? I can still shoot, still swing a mean knife, still outrun most of what we hunt." His lip twitches a bit and he adds, "Could probably outrun you. Outdo you in push-ups too, I bet. You look like you've gotten soft, Sammy," he says, his statement both a deflection and a couple steps shy of their favored double-dog dares of years past.

"Shut up," Sam retorts almost automatically, Dean's words striking a cord Sam had been suspecting himself. Because he has gotten soft. He'd been keeping himself in good shape up until Jess died, then kind of figured it didn't really matter anymore. That nothing much mattered anymore. Not like he totally let himself go - his years of growing up with Dean and his dad would never allow that to happen, but he's not entirely convinced that Dean's wrong on this one.

Not that he'd ever admit it out loud.

Because, one – it's Dean. And his brother's never been one to let him live down any humiliating memories. Just keeps bringing them back up again and again, enjoying playing Sam's worst hits at the most inopportune moments.

And because, two – it's Dean. And from what little Sam has seen of his brother, not a lot has changed. And he suspects the fact that his brother's down an arm will only raise the level of determination that his brother has in proving that he can still do what he considers to be his job.

"Alright, my turn," says Dean, attempting to corral the remainder of his burger with his right hand, his prosthesis lying idly on his lap. "How'd you find me Sam?" Dean asks, ready to turn the tables on his brother and get some of the focus off of himself.

Sam takes a couple of bites, devouring half the sandwich in an effort to fill his mouth and give himself a few extra moments to pull his thoughts together. Because he knew this question was coming. He's just not sure how to quite go about answering it without sounding like someone who really needs a mental health evaluation.

But if anyone can handle weird and crazy, it's Dean. This is what they do, after all. They've been dealing with the inexplicable their entire lives. And if he can't tell Dean, then he might as well just book his room at the nearest psychiatric facility, because that's where he'll be headed next.

So Sam swallows, washing his not half-bad chicken down with a healthy swig of domestic beer, and takes a deep breath, blowing out his remaining reservations about letting Dean in on his past year's activities.

"I saw you."

"What do you mean you saw me?" Dean asks, eyebrow quirked in support of his question.

Sam lets out another sigh and leans forwards, resting his forearms on the table, dropping his head slightly so he doesn't have to look directly at his brother.

"I've been having these visions," Sam says, quickly darting his glance up at Dean, proceeding when he sees his big brother listening attentively. "They started over a year ago. You weren't in them back then. But a couple of months ago, I started to see you. Only little snippets. Took me a while to figure out what was going on. Or maybe it took me a while to listen and decide to do something about what I was seeing, I don't know", he says, the frustration over his last sentence evident by the hand absently scrubbing through his hair.

"What were the first visions about?" Dean asks, his relaxed posture against the back of the booth seat at war with the sharp gaze locked on Sam.

"What?" Sam asks, still lost in his train of thought.

"If I wasn't part of the original movie in your freaky geek brain, then what was?" he asks again, Sam's shifty glance confirming his suspicion that whatever it was, it wasn't rainbows and unicorns.

"Jess," Sam says in a strangled voice, her name still evoking way too many fresh emotions.

"Who's Jess?" Dean asks, not missing the strain on Sam's face.

"Girlfriend. Was. Before she died. I think I was going to marry her…" he trails off, the wonderment in his own voice only serving to punctuate his disbelief over the events of the past year.

"Sam?" Dean asks, his voice causing his little brother to startle almost imperceptibly, bringing him back from the painful memories that had been flashing across his mind's eye.

"Yeah?"

"What happened?"

Sam chews on his lower lip, the reality never getting any easier to explain. Although up to this point he's always left out the most unique of the details. "Fire. On the ceiling. Just like mom."

"Dude," Dean says emphatically, leaning into the table, eyes wide at Sam's words. "Your almost-fiancee dies in a fire like mom and you don't think to tell me? Seriously? I mean, I know you might still be pissed at dad, but come on. That's probably information we should have."

"Kind of like when your brother loses an arm, you mean? Like that kind of information?" Sam asks, Bitch Face firmly in place.

Touché.

 _ **To Be Continued…**_


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

"Uh, Dean?" Sam asks.

"Yeah?" Dean answers distractedly, his concentration focused on the shot he's lining up on the pool table in front of himself.

"Tell me this isn't what you meant when you said you had to get some rehab in tonight."

Dean continues to try to position his hook to allow his pool cue to slide through for his desired shot, letting out a low growl when the ball he'd been aiming for bounces harmlessly off the side of the table instead of banking into the corner pocket. A shot he's made a thousand times. When he had his left hand.

"What?" he says with a "give me a break" expression. "It's called occupational rehab. This is part of my occupation."

"Hustling pool is not an occupation," Sam whispers tersely.

Dean just rolls his eyes, well aware of Sam's stance on their less-than-honest moneymaking methods over the years. "Not right now it's not," he mumbles to himself, stepping back and allowing Sam to take his shot.

Sam sinks three balls in quick succession before he misses, then leans against the back wall and sips his beer while Dean takes his time analyzing his next move. He can practically see the wheels turning in Dean's brain as he tries to figure out the mechanics of getting his prosthetic to do what he wants, knows from years of experience that Dean has an innate ability to calculate the geometry of the pool table like some kind of freaky pool shark savant.

"Hey," Sam says, pushing himself off the wall to stand closer to Dean. "How's that thing work anyway?" he asks, gesturing to the prosthetic arm with his beer bottle.

"Bunch of cables and rubber bands, if you can believe that," Dean says with a derisive snort, not really in the mood to get into the mechanics of his prosthetic. "Why Sammy? You wanna hold my hand?"

"It's Sam," Sam replies automatically with an eye roll. "And no. I just thought if I knew how it worked, maybe I could figure out how to help."

"I don't need your help," Dean says, eyebrow raised in challenge, posture tensing automatically.

"Uh, yeah, you do," Sam says, not backing down from his big brother's steely gaze.

"I'm not some charity case Sam. I've been fine for the past year. Hell, I've been fine for the past couple of years. Still hunting. Still killing the things that go bump in the night. Still saving people."

"Correct me if I'm wrong," Sam says, straightening up to impose his full height over his brother, "but one of us was chained up and the other one had to come to the rescue. Remind me - who was the damsel in distress again?

"Shut up, Bitch."

"Make me Jerk."

The brothers eyeball each other warily, each one spoiling for a fight but neither one really wanting to get into it right at this moment in time. Although the bar's fairly quiet, there are still too many prying eyes for Dean's liking and while Sam's been eager to hit almost anything for the past year, he's not entirely sure he'd be able to stop once he opened the floodgates.

Sam huffs out an exasperated sigh and shakes his head before slumping back against the wall. "You know that's not what I meant, right?"

Dean just cocks an eyebrow at him, a silent gesture to continue.

"I know you're not a charity case. I just meant that maybe I might want to stick around for a while. You know, give you a hand with stuff," he says, his face flushing as he hears the faux pas of his words aloud.

Dean gives a wry smile, glancing down at his hook as Sam squirms. "Why would you want to stick around, huh? Crappy motels. Diners and fast food joints. Living out of a duffel bag." He pauses and glances back up at Sam, eyes searching his brother's face with his next words. "Brother with one arm."

Sam chews on his lower lip, brows furrowed as he takes in the honest question veiled in Dean's jesting description about the hunting life. His brother's never been what one would call an open book, but Sam knows him well enough to pick up on the insecurity lurking behind his bravado. And if he's not mistaken, there might even be something akin to hope sparking in his eyes.

And so, Sam decides to answer Dean with some honesty of his own. Decides that if his brother discounts his answer then he'll just have to figure out some other way to make sense of his clusterfuck of a life.

He takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly, trying to calm the nerves that have suddenly made themselves known. "Because you're my family. And I've got nowhere else to go."

"But what about Stanford? What about school? And your friends?"

"I dropped out after Jess died. Couldn't concentrate. Had to take some time off. Then decided I just didn't want to continue, you know?" he says with a shrug, swallowing visibly in an effort to keep his emotions from spilling out all over the dirty bar floor.

"So then what the hell have you been doing for the past year?" Dean asks, skillfully dragging Sam away from the topics of family and Jess that he thinks are liable to send Sam into territory dangerously close to a chick flick moment.

"Working," Sam snorts, rolling his eyes at the laughable job that's at least kept him from becoming homeless while not coming close to fulfilling the fantasy life he'd imagined for himself years ago.

"Alright," Dean says, eyeballing his little brother and his more relaxed countenance now that he's on a safer topic of conversation. "I take it you're not dying to get back to your job. So if you're serious about sticking around, we need to get you whipped into shape."

Sam takes a long pull on his beer, swirling the remaining few sips around the bottom of the bottle while he lets Dean's ultimatum sink in. Not that it's so much an ultimatum as it is a testament to Dean's need to remind his little brother just how physical the hunting life is.

Sam's never desired the mind-numbing training of their growing up years more than he has at this moment in his life. Maybe then Jess' memory will leave him alone.

o()o()o()o(O)o()o()o()o

"Shit Sammy, you really did get soft, didn't you?"

"Shut up Jerk," Sam says, puffing as he tries to keep up on the impromptu 5-mile run Dean's coerced him into joining, his brother's idea of a "little jog" a long way from Sam's. The most exercise he's gotten recently is the climb up the ladder to the top shelves at the store.

Dean's taken it upon himself to become Sam's personal trainer, trying to get him up to snuff in the physical arena before he contemplates letting his brother join him on any hunts. Has been goading him into building up his stamina with "fun runs", getting his core strength back with sit-ups and crunches, and working on his hand eye coordination with target practice.

And Sam's taken Dean's ribbing in stride, using it as motivation to get himself back into a shape that will allow him to vent his pent-up emotions on the supernatural creepy crawlies without putting himself at risk for stupid injury because he's too out of shape to defend himself. Because besides seeing his brother again, that's really what he's looking forward to. Letting out the rage that's been festering for the past year, allowing it to see daylight while putting it to good use at the same time.

"I don't remember you training this hard," Sam says, trying to keep his brain off of the burn that's beginning to creep into his legs and his lungs. "Thought you always said running was a necessary evil."

"Necessary to get away from the evil," both brothers say at the same time, reiterating Dean's mantra during their growing up years.

"Yeah, well, laying around in a hospital bed for a couple of weeks really takes it out of you, you know?" he says, glancing at Sam before refocusing on the ground in front of himself, his lack of an arm throwing off his center of gravity, making it necessary to concentrate on his footing and his posture to avoid listing off to the side. "Had to get back in shape somehow." Not to mention the fact that being down one rather important built-in self-defense weapon makes it all the more necessary that he be able to outrun the bad guy.

Not that he'd admit that to Sam. Might make his little brother try to talk him into retirement.

As if.

"So," Dean continues "your arms get as flabby as your stomach?"

"Shut up Jerk," Sam reiterates at his brother's attempts to get under his skin.

"Make me Bitch," Dean says, cackling as he increases his speed, putting in just enough effort to keep himself out of Sam's reach.

Because he's pretty sure that when Sam finally snaps, it's going to be epic.

o()o()o()o(O)o()o()o()o

"Come on Sammy, I got one arm and I'm going faster than you," Dean says in between the push-ups he's executing on the dirty motel room carpet, both beds pushed to the side of the room in order to give the brothers some space for their workouts.

"Yeah, well," Sam mumbles, his words broken up by his own push-ups, "you're not even gonna have that arm much longer if I break it, Jerk."

Sam is actually quite impressed with Dean's level of fitness, has been ever since beginning his training with his brother.

He just wishes it didn't come with so much taunting.

Not that he'd expect anything less. Because Dean has never been the subtle Winchester. And he knows just how and when to push Sam's buttons; knows what will drive him to break that next goal and knows what will make him train that much harder.

And right now, Sam's thinking his brother might make a pretty decent punching bag if he doesn't shut up pretty damned soon.

"Come on Samantha, get the lead out," Dean says, again trying to coerce his little brother into continuing through the shaking in his arms.

"Shut it, Dean," Sam puffs, the warning in his voice only making his brother smirk that much more resolute.

"You gonna make me?" Dean asks, dropping from his push-up stance onto his knees, his right hand still contacting the floor, body tensing in anticipation of Sam's next move.

"You asked for it!" Sam cries, springing up from the floor and hurtling himself towards Dean, who's tried to roll out of Sam's projected trajectory, failing to consider the sheer wingspan of his gigantor little brother in his calculations.

The next few minutes are a melee of tangled Winchester limbs, the otherwise silent wrestling match sprinkled liberally with grunts and muffled curses as elbows and knees make contact with sensitive and rather squishy body parts in maneuvers honed over their years of similar brotherly activities.

"Okay, okay!" Sam finally cries, tapping his hand against the well-worn carpet in a sign of submission.

"Say it!" Dean says, his fingers twisting tighter into the hunk of hair in his grasp while his knees work overtime to keep Sam's struggling arms pinned to his chest.

"Arghhh, quit it!" Sam cries again, trying to squirm away from the ever-increasing pressure Dean's putting on his scalp.

"Not until you say it!"

"Fine!" Sam huffs, managing to roll his eyes past the pain throbbing at the roots of his hair. "Ilikewearingwomensunderwear," he grumbles under his breath.

"What was that? I didn't quite catch it," Dean says, not yet letting go.

"I like wearing women's underwear," he growls, enunciating the words in a clear voice.

He gingerly rubs his scalp once Dean's released his grip and mutters almost under his breath, "Dammit. Every time," annoyed at yet another thing that hasn't changed over the years.

"Well if you'd cut your damn hair this wouldn't keep happening, now would it?" Dean asks rhetorically, this same situation having played out numerous times over the years. And apparently, Sam has yet to learn his lesson.

The brothers eyeball each other for a few seconds before Dean climbs to his feet, extending his hand in an offering of peace, pulling Sam to his feet.

"You good?"

"Yeah," says Sam, running his tongue along his lower lip, checking for blood. "Think I'm gonna have a fat lip tomorrow, but I'll live," he says with a rueful smile.

"Yeah, well, you got a couple of pretty good licks in there yourself," Dean says, rubbing his stomach where Sam's bony elbow had caught him on several occasions. "Think you might be ready to hit the road."

Sam gives a nod of affirmation, more than ready to get this shit show moving. "Where are we headed?"

Dean's been pondering his next step for the past few days, has been considering carefully whether or not Sam is ready to get back out there and hunt the things that could kill them. And while he's pretty sure Sam's close to being able to handle himself, he's got a niggling feeling that he needs to pull together some more information. Needs to figure out what's up with the visions, what the significance of Jess' death really is.

And he thinks he knows where some of those answers may lie.

"You remember Bobby Singer?"

 _ **To Be Continued…**_


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

"Fuck," Sam hears Dean spit out, opening his eyes as he feels the car make a sharp swerve over onto the shoulder of the otherwise deserted road.

"What?" he asks, sleepily scrubbing his face, his nap interrupted by his brother's sudden actions.

"Oh FuckFuckFuck," Dean repeats, right hand scrambling to put the Impala in park before hunching his body forward and resting his head on the steering wheel.

Sam can see his brother's eyes squeezed tightly shut, can see the muscles of his jaw working furiously to keep any further emotions or exclamations to himself. Can also see the beads of sweat popping out along his hairline and the white knuckles of his clenched hand as it rests on his thigh.

"Dean. What?" Sam repeats, scanning his brother for any clues as to the cause off their sudden detour.

Dean has a lightening quick debate with himself, knowing that if Sam's going to be a part of his life then he's going to have to let his brother in on these rare occurrences sooner or later. Looks like sooner it is.

"Phantom pain," he grinds out, moving his hand from his leg in order to get a firm grasp on his stump. He begins kneading the end of his residual limb while working to get his breathing under control, finally hazarding a glance over to Sam once he can form coherent words again. "Don't come all that often anymore, but when they do, they're a bitch."

He continues massaging in silence for a few more seconds, face locked in a grimace, then bites the bullet and asks for Sam's help.

"Can you get something out of the back for me? In my duffel. Compression sock. Helps sometimes."

"Sure, sure," Sam says, hastily scrambling to do anything to help his big brother right at this moment. He stops and ducks his head down into the door, a sheepish look on his face. "What am I looking for?"

"White elastic sleeve thing. Looks like a giant condom. Can't miss it," Dean answers, trying to force a wry smile past his grimace of pain.

Sam disappears and returns moments later, sliding into the passenger's seat again with the requested item in tow.

Dean quickly works his left arm out of its flannel sleeve, yanks up the sleeve of his T shirt, and rolls the tight compression sock over his residual limb, his right hand keeping a firm grip on his stump in a continued effort to try to ease the pain.

"What else can I do?" Sam asks after a few minutes of tense silence, absently gnawing on his swollen lower lip as he tries to figure out how he can further come to the aid of his big brother.

"Nothing Sam. Just takes some time. Unless you want to hit me over the head with something, knock me out. That might help," he says, sliding his glance Sam's way, not missing the look of despondency in his little brother's eyes.

Because as much as Dean hates these displays of vulnerability, Sam hates these feelings of helplessness. Recalls similar feelings while he was watching Jess die. Doesn't know how many more times he can handle sitting idly on the sidelines while his loved ones suffer.

"What about medications?" Sam asks, wracking his brain for anything else that might be helpful.

Dean works a rather tired smile around his grimace of pain at the eagerness in Sam's voice, his little brother's "Comfort" mode obviously still intact despite their years apart.

"Tried 'em. Helped a little," he says between deep rhythmic breaths that he blows out through pursed lips. "But you know what those things do to me. Make me loopy as hell."

Sam lets a faint smile ghost across his face, the last time he was around a doped-up Dean playing in his memory bank. "Loopy" might be an understatement; his brother had almost been sent to jail for public indecency. It had taken a doctor's note and a fairly convincing song and dance by their dad in order to get the officer to drop the charges.

"Besides," Dean continues, his hand in danger of cramping from the amount of pressure he's putting on his residual limb, "despite what you're seeing right now, they actually don't come all that often anymore. Don't last as long either. Hardly makes it worth taking anything."

"Yeah, clearly," Sam mutters, eyebrow raised in disbelief that his brother would rather suffer through what looks to be a rather spectacular level of pain than do something to help himself. Although, who is he kidding? This is Dean, after all.

"Want me to drive?" Sam asks, figuring that if he can't do anything else to help, he can at least keep them heading on the road towards Bobby.

"Just give me a sec," Dean says, taking a couple of additional deep breaths before Sam finally sees the moment when the pain lets go, his brother's shoulders sagging in relief while his right hand releases its grip on his left arm and drops back into his lap.

"Shit," he says, laying his head back against the headrest, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead in order to remove the sheen of sweat that's collected during his stationary workout. He gives a rueful half-smile to Sam before tugging his right flannel sleeve off with his teeth and throwing the shirt into the backseat. "Still think this is what you want?" he asks, understanding completely if his little impromptu display of helplessness sends Sam running back to California.

"You think something like that's going to scare me off?" Sam asks, eyebrow cocked in disbelief at his brother's question. "You're gonna have to try a lot harder to get rid of me, you big Jerk."

A small smile ghosts across Dean's face, Sam's avoidance of any true emotions and touchy-feely crap regarding his little "issue" going miles towards putting Dean at ease.

"If you say so, Bitch."

o()o()o()o(O)o()o()o()o

Sam pulls the Impala up to the ramshackle house in the middle of the junkyard, Dean having finally allowed him to take the wheel of his precious car two states into their 20 plus hour drive, and lets the engine idle, not wanting to awaken his still sacked-out brother quite yet.

He takes a few moments to peruse the image of his older brother, lips quirking as he takes in the slack jaw that's allowing a thin string of drool to pool on the flannel shirt he's now using as a pillow, his right arm tucked under his head in order to help cushion it from the window he's resting against. And Sam's glad to see that his brother's face shows no lingering etchings of pain, seems instead to be the picture of innocence.

Sam barely restrains the snort of derision that tags along at the end of that thought; Dean hasn't been innocent in decades.

He lets his gaze travel downwards, stuttering to a stop when his eyes reach the end of Dean's left arm, the sight of his T-shirt covered stump lying rather innocuously against his body forming a tight knot in Sam's chest. He still can't believe how Dean could have kept something like this from him. Cannot even begin to fathom trying to cope with something as big as this on his own. Of course, he supposes, Dean had dad. Although, now that Sam thinks about it, Dean hasn't actually talked all that much about their father. And Sam hasn't asked.

Of course, he hadn't left on the best of terms. Scratch that. He'd left in a shitstorm of emotional upheaval, wanting never to get drawn back into the life their father had rammed down their throats.

What a difference a year (and watching your almost-fiancée burning on the ceiling) makes.

Sam makes a couple of mental notes about his current train of thought, tucking the questions away for a more opportune moment, and turns the engine off, the numbness in his ass finally overpowering his need for quiet introspection.

"Hey man. We're here," he says, reaching out his hand and hesitating momentarily before gently shaking Dean's left shoulder, careful not to touch his stump.

"Bobby's?" Dean asks sleepily, wiping the string of drool off of his chin with a look of disgust.

Sam nods and unfolds himself out of the car, groaning as he pops a couple of vertebrae in his back and works the kinks out of his neck.

Dean follows suit, climbing out of the car and twisting his lower back in an attempt to unwind the discomfort associated with endless hours in the car. He takes a slow turn around the Impala, nodding appreciatively at Sam as he finds no dings, scratches, or other blemishes on his pride and joy.

"Good job Sammy."

"I do know how to drive a car, you know," Sam says with a roll of his eyes. "You taught me. Remember?"

"How could I forget?" Dean says with a snort. "Thought you were gonna strip the gears right there in the middle of that intersection."

Sam responds with a Bitch Face, forgoing any further verbal retorts in favor of gathering his belongings from the trunk.

Dean joins him, hoisting his personal duffel and the bag they use for weapons up onto his right shoulder, waving Sam off when he offers to help carry something. He leaves his prosthetic in the trunk, having no inkling to pursue additional "therapy sessions" today, and slams the lid closed, leading Sam up the rickety front steps of the house neither of them has visited for more years than either brother can recall.

Dean's knock on the front door initiates a series of muffled barks, followed by a string of muttered curses from a much closer distance.

The brothers share a smirk, both thinking that this is likely another thing that'll never change. Bobby yelling at one of his mutts while having no patience for John Q Public.

"Yeah? What?" comes the terse response, the door opening quickly to reveal an older, slightly paunch-bellied man wearing a dirty trucker's hat atop his head, a vest thrown over his flannel shirt, and a pair of motor-oil splattered jeans.

The shotgun aimed at the brothers' heads is a nice accessory.

"Sam? Dean?" Bobby asks, eyebrows disappearing under the brim of his hat. "What the hell?"

"Good to see you too, old man," Dean replies, gently nudging the business end of the gun out of his face.

"Damn boy. Would it kill you to pick up a phone? Let a guy know you're still alive? Or that you're planning to stop by for a tea party with your long-lost brother?"

He moves aside, letting the boys enter his house, and closes the door behind them, ushering them into the kitchen where he hands them each a bottle of beer, relaxing only after he watches them down a few healthy gulps without incident.

The terse silence stretches across the kitchen, each man lost in his own memories regarding past interactions and visitations, before Bobby finally breaks the ice.

"Real sorry about your arm," he says, nodding to Dean's empty sleeve.

"Yeah," Dean snorts, "me too."

Bobby just rolls his eyes, turns to Sam. "And sorry about Jess, Sam."

Sam swallows a couple of times, unprepared for the earnest show of emotion from the gruff older hunter, then nods his acceptance.

"Wait. How'd you know about that? I didn't even know about it," Dean says, a look of disbelief on his face at the thought that Bobby's been receiving updates on Sam's life when he himself hasn't.

"I hear things," says Bobby with a nonchalant shrug.

"Yeah, well, thanks for sharing," Dean mutters sarcastically, glaring into his beer.

"Hey, don't blame me for not sending out a weekly Winchester newsletter," Bobby says, his eyebrow raised in a bland challenge. "Got enough problems of my own. Speaking of which," he says, his suspicious glance bouncing between the brothers, "why do I get the feeling that I now have a couple more added into the mix?"

"Cause you know us too well?" says Sam, dimples making a brief appearance as he references the years of hijinks and troublemaking that have taken place under this roof.

"Ain't that the damned truth," Bobby mutters, his own lips quirking as he recalls memories of his own. "But seriously, what the hell are you boys doing here?" he asks with genuine sincerity.

"Looking for answers?" Dean replies, his tone more of a query than a statement. "Got some questions that I'm hoping you might be able to help with."

Bobby doesn't miss the earnest look on the older Winchester's face, nor does he miss the sheepish look that crosses Sam's face when he hears Dean's reply. He narrows his eyes and scratches his beard, giving an abbreviated nod when he decides on his response.

"Alright, what've you got?"

 _ **To Be Continued…**_

Author's Note: I'm going to decrease the frequency of updates at least over the holidays – will aim for weekends. And I hope you all continue to be entertained with this little story (let me know – I love to hear your thoughts).


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

"You sure about that?" Bobby asks, skeptically eyeballing the younger Winchester. "On the ceiling?"

"Yeah, I'm sure," Sam says, swallowing convulsively. "I watched her burn. From the bed right underneath her."

"Damn," Bobby says, letting out a low whistle. "Your dad know about this?" he asks Dean, his raised eyebrows adding weight to his question.

Dean shrugs and glances over to Sam. "I just found out a couple of days ago. Haven't talked to him since." His eyes dart back to the older hunter and he continues, "So I take it your intel didn't extend that deeply into Jess' death, huh?"

Bobby shakes his head and strokes his beard. "Nope. Just the what. Not the how."

"Tell him about the other part," Dean says, his tone of voice letting Bobby know that Jess' incineration isn't the only bombshell likely to drop.

Sam gives his brother a hard stare, which Dean returns in kind, before the younger Winchester hunches over and props his forearms on his thighs, idly tracing his thumbnail through an indentation he remembers carving into the kitchen table the three hunters are gathered around.

"So, I've also kind of been seeing things," Sam says, flicking his glance up at Bobby before taking interest in the table top once again.

"As in that kid who sees dead people?" Bobby asks, blandly. Knowing the things these boys have dealt with over the years, he's not all that surprised. Hell, he sees things several times a week. And only some of them are when he's been drinking.

"No," Sam says, with a weak laugh. "As in seeing things. Before they happen. And then they do. Happen, I mean." He pauses and spares another glance at Bobby before looking at his brother, who's slouched in his kitchen chair, right hand wrapped around the remainder of his left bicep in what Sam's come to recognize as his brother's way of crossing his arms.

Seeing the slight nod of encouragement from Dean, he takes a deep breath and lets Bobby in on his next layer of secrets.

"So, first Jess. Then Dean?" Bobby asks once Sam's finished describing his visions, trying to make room in his brain for the plethora of new information being thrown his way.

Sam nods, biting his still tender lip absently while he awaits the judgement of "crazy/not crazy" from the older hunter.

Bobby's eyebrows furrow and he scratches his chin absently before scribbling a couple of notes on the piece of scrap paper in front of him.

"When did these visions start?" Bobby asks, flicking Sam a glance, his pencil poised to jot down Sam's answer.

"About a year and a half ago. Maybe six months before Jess died?" he says, doing some quick mental calculations and giving a brief nod when his estimate's confirmed.

"And when was your accident?" Bobby asks, turning his gaze on Dean.

"Just over a year ago," he says, the mention of his accident causing him to drop his hand from its resting place on his stump, rubbing his suddenly damp palm against the thigh of his jeans.

"Specifics. What date?" Bobby asks, not missing the sudden pallor of the older Winchester, nor the increased fidgeting brought on by his line of questioning.

"October 29th," he says quietly, not able to forget that date, even though the details are still somewhat hazy.

"And when did Jess die?"

"November 2nd," Sam mumbles around the knot of emotions in his throat.

"Dammit," Bobby mutters to himself. "Just a couple days apart," he says a little louder, glancing between the brothers, both Winchesters caught up in their own painful memories.

"Dean," he says, hoping the slight bark in his voice will pull the older brother back from wherever his mind has wandered and back into more helpful territory. "Where were you when you had your accident?"

"Just outside of Denver," he says, leaning his right arm on the table, trying to get a glimpse of the scribblings on Bobby's piece of paper.

"Where were you headed?"

Dean's eyes dart up to Bobby's, a sheepish look crossing his face as he gives a reluctant shrug. "Don't remember. It's all kind of scrambled," he says, gesturing towards his head.

Bobby sits back in his seat and taps his pencil idly against the table, his face mirroring the deep thoughts flitting through his rapidly churning brain.

"Sam," he says, having to echo himself in order to get the younger Winchester's attention. "You still good with all that techy crap?"

"Yeah," he says, shaking his head a couple of times to dislodge the lingering images of Jess that had been replaying themselves in his head.

"Alright," says the older hunter, "here's what I want you to do."

o()o()o()o(O)o()o()o()o

"Hey Dean?" Sam asks, forehead furrowed in deep thought as he rereads the police report on the computer screen in front of him. He's been doing his best to try to keep his interest clinical, attempting to treat it like the research he's done on any number of prior hunts, but his stomach contents continue to threaten to make a break for the hardwood floor in Bobby's study, the details of Dean's accident laid out in front of him in black and white. Thankfully, a couple of notations in the file he'd hacked into have managed to turn his attention away from the physical damage done to Dean's body and towards some rather interesting pieces of information.

"Yeah," comes Dean's distracted reply from across the room. He'd wanted no part in reading through the report Sam was able to find, uncertain as to what his actual reaction would be, the haziness of his memory surrounding the car accident and the next several days in the hospital comforting at least in the fact that he doesn't have recurrent nightmares regarding the trauma of the events.

So instead, he'd agreed to work on retracing his steps leading up to that day, jotting down the jobs he'd done and where he'd stopped the weeks before in an effort to try to figure out where he was headed.

"Was there someone else in the car with you?" Sam calls back, his question edged with confusion.

Dean leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, his own face registering the effort he puts into giving Sam's question serious thought.

"I don't know," he says, absently rubbing the end of his stump as the gears in his brain continue to crank. "Maybe?" he says, with a shrug and an apologetic grimace. "Why, what makes you ask?"

"Well," says Sam, throwing a glance in his brother's direction before returning his attention to his computer screen, "just something in the report. It says here that you kept repeating 'Where is she?'."

"Huh," Dean says, his eyebrows furrowed as he tries to wrack his brain to recall his words or what he may have been referring to.

"But," Sam continues, scrolling through the pages he's downloaded, "the report says there was no one else at the scene. No one besides you involved in the crash. That they couldn't find any evidence of another person."

"Maybe I was just rambling cause I hit my head?" Dean asks with a sheepish shrug, well aware of the ridiculous discussions that he and Sam have engaged in over the years when one or the other of them had been concussed. "Or maybe I was talking about the car?" Dean says in a confused tone, his penchant for referring his car as a "she" making that explanation wholly plausible as well.

"And that's another thing," Sam says. "Says here that the only thing wrong with the car was the dent in the driver's side door, where your arm was trapped. Other than that, not a scratch."

Dean glances reflexively down to his empty T shirt sleeve, then scrubs his right hand over his head as if trying to dislodge any lingering answers from his memory.

"That's weird, right?" he asks, the sinking feeling in his gut confirming that something is definitely "off" with either his accident or the report. In fact, the longer Sam's questions and the inconsistencies between his memories and the supposed events at the accident scene wash over his rapidly firing brain cells, the more he gets the feeling that Sam's initial question is actually quite important. Gets that same feeling he usually gets on a hunt when a rather significant clue has been unearthed.

"Yeah," Sam mutters, running his hands through his hair as he tries to get his own neurons to make some connections. The Impala might be built like a tank, but flipping through the air several times like Dean had described usually leaves a little more damage than just a dented door.

Sam sits back, hands resting on the top of his head, and looks across the room at Dean, who's now busily pacing back and forth, trying desperately to grab at something that seems to be lingering just out of his reach.

The older Winchester gives a low growl, giving voice to the frustration at being so close to making sense of something he feels has been locked away in his subconscious for a long time now, yet not having any idea as to what that something even is.

"Things going that well, then, huh?" asks Bobby as he ambles into the study, his shrewd hunter's senses taking in the visible signs of the brothers' distress as well as the palpable tension in the air.

Sam quickly fills him in on what they've learned (as well as what they haven't), Bobby's eyes narrowing towards the end of Sam's discourse.

He spends a couple of long seconds stroking his beard, mind working a mile a minute before he decides that a break is in order, none of them having eaten anything of substance for several hours, their earlier meal of beer and beef jerky having long since burned off.

"If I recall," he says, with a raised eyebrow. "One of you was a halfway decent cook," he says, glancing Dean's way, "while the other was a complete disaster in the kitchen," he continues, his gaze sliding towards Sam while Dean snickers.

"Oh, come on," Sam says, head tilted to the side, shoulders sagging at Bobby's comment. "It's not my fault the tuna noodle casserole exploded."

Bobby and Dean share a look, both of them answering at the same time, "Yeah, it was."

"I didn't even know something like that was possible, Sammy," Dean says, his mood lightening now that Sam's misfortunes have taken center stage.

"Can you still cook?" Bobby asks, nodding towards Dean's empty sleeve, while Sam's busy huffing and rolling his eyes.

"Would you rather let Sam try?" Dean asks with a snort, his eyebrows raised in wary expression, not taking any offence at Bobby's genuine question.

"I don't think I can afford it," Bobby replies blandly, recalling the amount of paint and elbow grease it had taken to eliminate the evidence of Sam's last foray into the world of food preparation.

o()o()o()o(O)o()o()o()o

"Son of a bitch," Dean mutters to himself, the metal bowl on the counter in front of him spinning crazily while he tries to mix the ingredients for his meat loaf together.

He's always enjoyed cooking, finds it soothing and practical at the same time, something so normal in the mess that is the life of a hunter. Not that he gets much of a chance, what with usually being on the road, not to mention the lack of a home base.

So when Bobby had asked, he'd practically jumped at the chance to do something to take his mind off of the frustrating events of the afternoon while also avoiding having to eat Bobby's cooking. Because although it won't cause anything to explode, it's also just this side of palatable.

Of course, the whole process would be a hell of a lot easier if he still had his other arm. He'd been fine gathering the ingredients, cracking the eggs, opening the packages. It's just that without his other hand he can't keep the bowl from spinning while he tries to mix everything together. His residual arm isn't nearly long enough to provide a stabilizing force and the round bottom of the mixing bowl he's using doesn't lend itself to being clamped between his legs.

"Dammit," he mutters to himself, not really thrilled with any of his options, trying to figure out the lesser of all the proverbial evils in his little conundrum.

He knows Sam would be overjoyed to literally give his brother a hand and hold the bowl in place, but Dean's already said he could handle this, and he doesn't want to do anything that would prove otherwise.

And even though he's more than sure that the other two men in the house wouldn't mind if he just stuck his hand into the gloppy mess to mix it that way, trying to figure out a way to get the raw meat and egg mixture off of his hand afterwards doesn't really fill him with joy. Because again, without that other hand to help, trying to wash one hand by itself is kind of a bitch.

So instead, he heads outside, quickly returning with his prosthetic which he slides on over his T shirt, and then spends a few seconds figuring out how to best use it to accomplish his task.

"What's that?" asks a freshly showered Sam, wandering into the kitchen and peeking at the contents of Dean's now stationary bowl.

"My famous meatloaf," Dean says, concentrating on keeping his hook gripping the edge of the bowl while his other hand thoroughly mixes the ingredients together.

Sam's stomach gives a growl of approval, memories of his brother's cooking now coming to him at full force.

"Need anything?" Sam asks, leaning against the kitchen counter, more than ready to help in whatever capacity he can.

"Nope, I'm good," says Dean, spooning the mixture from the bowl into the baking pan before placing it in the oven. "Voila," he says, setting the timer. "You can clean up though," he says, reminding Sam of their longstanding rules regarding meal preparation and clean up duties.

He moves the bowls and measuring cups over to the sink and dumps them in rather unceremoniously before heading upstairs to wash the day off of himself. "And keep your damned hands off the meatloaf," he warns Sam as he heads upstairs, "don't want it exploding all over the kitchen."

"Shut up, you big jerk," Sam mutters in a tone of resignation known by younger siblings the world over.

Dean just smirks. He's really missed having a little brother to mess with these past couple of years.

More to the point, he's really missed Sam.

 _ **To Be Continued…**_


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

Author's Note: Thanks for all of the continued support and encouragement – I love each and every one of you!

o()o()o()o(O)o()o()o()o

Dean awakens with a gasp, the sheen of cold sweat covering his body just as likely to be due to the images that have been floating through his dreaming brain as it is to the pain that has reared its ugly head yet again.

His right hand grips his stump reflexively, his jaw clenched in an effort to keep any further expressions of pain under wraps until he can leave the bedroom he's sharing with Sam, not wanting his little brother to witness yet another episode of weakness.

He makes his way carefully downstairs, Sam merely rolling over when Dean fails to keep another gasp of pain to himself, only to find Bobby wide awake in his study, thumbing through a pile of dusty tomes on the desk of front of him.

"You okay?" Bobby asks earnestly, seeing Dean's face locked in a grimace, his right hand desperately clutching the end of his left arm while he props himself against the doorway.

Dean manages a weak nod, pushing himself off of his momentary resting spot in order to sink into the chair opposite the older hunter before doubling over and laying his head against the cool wood of Bobby's desk.

Although he's not all that excited to have Bobby as a witness to his pain, he figures that at least the older hunter's likely to leave him to his own devices, unlike his little brother who would be wringing his hands and biting his lip in sympathetic agony.

Cursing himself momentarily for not thinking to grab his compression sock before he'd left the bedroom, he commences deep breathing, trying to refocus his attention away from the pain like their father had taught them years ago. When that in addition to an impromptu Led Zeppelin concert in his head fails to create the necessary diversion from his rather impressive level of torture, he tries to think of other possible distractions, his mind finally alighting on the images he'd seen just before waking up.

He's only able to recall brief flashes, but he can clearly visualize the face of a woman, a passenger in the Impala, face cracked in a malicious-looking smile that sends a chill up Dean's spine even now, bright blue eyes flashing black before she reaches over and yanks the steering wheel hard, sending the car careening towards the concrete divider in the middle of the highway.

Dean lets out a gasp, this time in disbelief instead of pain, his stomach plunging towards his toes as he sees the car spinning in tight circles, not flipping like he'd told Sam. Just as abruptly as it begins, the motion stops, the car sitting idle for the briefest of moments before sliding sideways into the concrete barrier as if being pushed by a tremendous invisible force, the immobile structure rushing towards Dean before he can move, his arm trapped in an unnatural position against the dashboard as a result of the car's motion.

"What the…," he mutters to himself, watching as the woman smirks and calmly opens the passenger's side door, leaning back in, her mouth forming soundless words before closing the door and disappearing from view, leaving him in a fruitless struggle to extricate himself from the Impala.

He can now identify the phantom pain as exactly the same as what he felt while he was trapped – the same location, the same intensity, the same feeling of the bones in his arm being crushed beyond repair.

"Son of a bitch," he grinds out, a combination of the continued pain in his residual limb and the recall of the initiating event as well as the feeling that he's still missing some rather significant pieces of the puzzle, his futile efforts to recall what she'd said adding yet another layer of frustration.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?" he gasps, working to get his traitorous body back under control.

"You sure you're okay?" Bobby asks, the sincere concern evident in his tone.

"Yeah. I'm fine," he says, blowing out a relieved breath when his words ring true, the pain in his arm relenting as quickly as it had come.

"Son of a bitch," he reiterates, this time with an air of exhaustion, raising his head up off the desk only to slump back and slouch down in the chair, warily eyeballing Bobby who's eyeballing him right back.

"That happen a lot?" Bobby asks, pouring two glasses of whiskey and placing one on front of Dean before taking a sip.

Dean takes a healthy gulp of his own, enjoying the sting of the liquid as it races towards his stomach, swirling the remainder around the bottom of the glass before downing the rest of his drink.

"Not as much as it used to," he answers, hoping that he's not jinxing himself; he hasn't had two close episodes like this for a couple of months now.

Dean squirms under Bobby's scrutinizing gaze and before he can second guess himself he blurts out a question that he thinks will get the older hunter's attention off of him and back to more important matters.

"Do black eyes mean anything to you?"

Dean doesn't miss the way Bobby straightens up almost imperceptibly in his chair, his eyes slightly widening before quickly narrowing again as he searches the younger hunter's face. "What kind of black eyes?"

"Like normal blue eyes one minute, then they flash to black," he says, worrying his lower lip while he watches the older hunter on the opposite side of the desk.

"Where'd you see that?" asks Bobby, leaning forwards on the desk, his body tense.

"Up here," Dean says, tapping his head. "Just now. Before I woke up," he adds, not missing Bobby's laser-like focus as he describes the images he's managed to recall.

"Dammit," Bobby mutters when Dean's finished, sitting back in his chair heavily and pouring himself another drink.

"What?" Dean asks warily, not liking the look on the older hunter's face, something akin to a mixture of fear and concern.

Bobby taps his now empty glass on his desk a couple of times, mind working to get his thoughts lined up. He leans forward, bracing himself on his desk, weighing his words carefully before he speaks.

"I think there _was_ someone else in the car with you," he says, his intense gaze locked on Dean. "And I think it was a demon."

o()o()o()o(O)o()o()o()o

"A what?" Sam asks, eyebrows up to his hairline as his eyes bounce between Dean and Bobby. He'd known something was up from the moment he came downstairs earlier in the morning, both hunters already amped up on caffeine and nerves before he'd barely managed to get his brain kick-started for the day.

As it turns out, Bobby's answer to his previous day's question regarding Dean and his possible traveling companion gets his brain cells activated much quicker than any cup of coffee ever has.

"A demon," Bobby reiterates, not blaming the younger Winchester for the disbelief evident on his face. It had taken a face to face meeting with his own possessed wife before he himself had become a believer.

"And what makes you think that?" Sam asks, his glance traveling over to his brother before returning back to Bobby. Dean's taken up wearing down the hardwood floor in Bobby's study, his restless pacing adding to Sam's growing agitation.

"Something your brother said," Bobby answers, pushing himself off of the edge of the desk he'd been perched upon in order to make his way back around to the seat he'd spent the better part of last night warming, yet another sleepless night trying to pull together pieces to a puzzle he didn't even know existed.

"Care to elaborate?" Sam prompts when Bobby fails to continue, the older hunter still grasping to make sense of the picture he can't yet see.

Bobby and Dean engage in a rather heated nonverbal contest of wills, each man giving the other the hairiest eyeball he can muster, Dean trying to get the point across that he's not too keen on reliving the vivid memories of his accident quite yet while Bobby tries to nonverbally communicate the fact that since it's Dean's brain, he should be the one to spill the proverbial beans.

Dean finally huffs out a resigned sigh, pausing his attempt to wear down Bobby's hardwood floors just long enough to fill Sam in on the previous night's events, the fact that he's retelling it in the morning daylight as opposed to the middle of the night doing nothing to lessen the feeling of doom that continues to churn in his gut.

"You remember smelling any sulfur?" Bobby asks at the tail end of Dean's revelations, having forgotten to confirm this piece of information the previous night in all the excitement.

"What?" Dean asks, his face showing the confusion at Bobby's question and the effort he puts into trying to recall that tidbit of information as well.

"You know – sulfur. Rotten eggs? Or see any yellow powder? Right up there with the black eyes as a sign of a demon's presence," Bobby says, his attention grabbed by the face of the younger Winchester, Sam's complexion paling rapidly as he hears the older hunter's words, his eyes rounded into wide unblinking saucers.

"Sam?" Bobby asks, his verbal nudge bringing Sam back to the present, shaking his shaggy head slightly to try to clear his brain.

"Yeah," he says, swallowing several times in order to get some moisture back into his suddenly desert-dry mouth.

"What's wrong?" adds Dean, glad to have the attention off of himself while not liking the sudden turn Sam's countenance has taken.

"It's just," Sam begins, fidgeting in his seat as he tries to make sense of his own revelations. "I remember smelling sulfur the night Jess died." He glances across the desk at Bobby before swinging his glance over to Dean, both men utterly still at his words. "And I'm pretty sure there was some yellow powder in the apartment too. I overhead a couple of the fire fighters talking about it afterwards. Didn't know what to make of it, so I just assumed it was part of the fire."

"Ah, hell…" Bobby says, thumping backwards into his chair heavily, lifting the hat off of his head in order to scratch his head in consternation.

Because if he's right about this, then not only was Jess killed by a demon, but the supposition would be that the boys' mother was as well. Add in the fact that Dean had a close encounter of his own around the same time as Jess' death, and there's a pretty strong chance that the Winchesters are part of something big.

He's never wanted to be more wrong about something in his entire life.

Nor does he ever think he's been more right.

o()o()o()o(O)o()o()o()o

"You're sure about that?" Dean asks the person on the other end of his phone, the husband of a couple whose house he'd de-ghosted in the days leading up to his accident. "Okay then, thanks. And give Sandra my best," he says, clicking his phone closed and tapping it lightly against his chin, eyebrows furrowed in deep thought.

"Sandra, huh?" says Sam, his own eyebrows wagging suggestively at Dean's end of the conversation.

"Yeah," says Dean blandly, "Sandra. Seventy years old, round as she is tall. But bakes a hell of a pie. Go for it Sammy, I think she'd love you. Of course, you might have to fight her husband for her. He walks with a cane. I think you might just be able to take him," he adds, keeping a straight face.

Sam's Bitch Face makes an appearance, the younger Winchester schooling his features again quickly, not wanting his brother's smart mouth to divert their attention away from the task at hand.

The brothers have redoubled their efforts, working furiously to continue to try to figure out the events surrounding Dean's accident and Jess' death, Bobby having taken a Time Out in order to help another hunter who'd gotten himself into some hot water with the local authorities.

"So if you're done thinking dirty thoughts about someone who could be your grandmother," Dean continues with a bland raise of his eyebrow, "I think I might have something."

"You mean besides a couple of STDs?" Sam asks, reflexively ducking away from the pen that whizzes past his right earlobe.

"Funny," Dean says, his expression and tone of voice saying otherwise. He leans against the bookcase in Bobby's study, the two of them having barely stepped foot outside of the room save for eating and sleeping since their arrival, and crosses his arms before quirking his eyebrow at Sam. "You want to hear this or not?"

Sam just rolls his eyes and huffs out his response, recalling all too well how it feels to be so cooped up with his brother in the midst of a hunt. They'll both be lucky to make it out alive.

"So, Walter just told me that I'd been talking about going out to California. Wondered if I'd made it out there yet."

"Well, did you?" Sam asks, wondering not for the first time if Dean had ever come close to visiting him. "Would have been nice to at least call," he mutters under his breath.

"Sam," Dean barks, his voice snapping Sam's eyes to his own. "They were the last job I did before my accident."

"Okay," Sam draws out, the hurt confusion still evident on his face.

"Oh, for Pete's sake, boy genius," Dean says, raising his arms in exasperation, his left stump doing little more than trailing along after the right like an afterthought.

"What?" Sam asks, now sliding into something closer to a sulk at the annoyance directed his way by his older brother.

Dean takes a couple of deep breaths, trying to get himself back in check, and finally sits down across from Sam in Bobby's chair, turning the map of the United States that the older hunter keeps handy around to face his brother.

"Walter and Sandra live in Omaha," he says with measured patience, placing his finger on the appropriate spot on the map. "My accident was outside of Denver," he says, tracing his finger along the direct highway linking the two. And apparently, I was headed to California," he adds, finally seeing the lightbulb go on in Sam's head.

"Sam," he continues, his eyes searching his younger brother's face, "I think I was coming to find you."

 _ **To Be Continued…**_


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

"Okay," says Bobby, back in the thick of things now that he's gotten the other hunter's law enforcement issue straightened out. "So, we know where you were going. Now we just to need to know why."

"What, you don't think I was just headed there because I missed my geeky little brother?" Dean asks, smirking when he sees the eye roll directed his way by the subject of his comment.

"Well, you didn't bother to come see me at Stanford before," Sam says, his eyebrows raised in a steely challenge. "So why would you have decided to start then?"

Dean whistles under his breath and mumbles, "Wow, touchy," he says, rolling his own eyes at Bobby who just shakes his head in exasperation, the muttered "Idjits" equally directed towards the younger Winchester's barely contained emotional turmoil and the older Winchester's cluelessness regarding his brother's feelings.

"I mean, I'm away at school for a couple of years, don't even get a card for my birthday, and I'm supposed to believe that all of a sudden you decide to take a joyride out to see me?" Sam continues, feeling his blood pressure rise as he begins to work himself up.

"Hey," Dean says, his voice a warning to his younger brother, "the phone lines go both ways, you know. I don't remember getting any calls from you either," he adds, his own eyebrow raised in challenge.

"Alright, cool it, you two," Bobby says, physically stepping between the brothers who are eyeballing each other like they might throw down right there in the middle of the study. The older hunter glances between the two Winchesters, points his fingers at each one in turn, and makes sure to get a nod of agreement from them both before returning to his chair behind his desk.

"Now, I think Sam may be on to something," he says, giving a warning glare to Dean when he lets out a derisive snort, and then continues. "Because somehow I just don't think you were going out there for a friendly visit."

"Yeah? Well then what the hell was I doing?" Dean asks, his tone deflating from one of challenge to true bewilderment.

"You remember any more about that day?" Bobby asks, nodding towards Dean's empty T shirt sleeve. "Specifically, what the demon said?"

Dean crosses his arms in a subconscious response to Bobby's mention of his accident and shakes his head. "No," he says with a huff of exasperation, "but I know what you're getting at. I have a feeling that whatever she said might be kind of important."

"Ok," says Sam, having replaced his emotions with more rational reasoning. "So how do we figure out what she said to you?"

"Bobby, you got any tricks to get up your sleeve?" Dean asks. "Any hoodoo potions? Memory spells?"

"I could try to beat it out of you," Sam says, a little too hopefully for Dean's liking. "What? It could work," he says defensively at his older brother's steely glare.

Bobby just rolls his eyes and scratches his head, then searches the bookshelf behind his desk until he finds the book he'd been looking for.

"I might have something," he says, trailing off until he gives an "Aha!" when he reaches the proper page. "Yep, here we go." He spends a few moments silently perusing the page and then turns the book around, Sam and Dean huddling close together in order to read through the incantation he'd managed to find.

"Yeah, okay," Dean says, swallowing convulsively around the sudden lump that's taken up residence in his throat.

"Bobby," Sam says softly, the concern evident in his voice, "you sure about this?"

"No," Bobby says, with an apologetic shrug. "But I don't know that we've got much else to go on right now."

The brothers reread the page in front of them, careful to take in the nuances and details that can spell disaster if overlooked. Sam's pretty sure he can manage the Latin phrasing – it had always been his job anyway, given his ear for languages. He's just worried about Dean's role. Because although he doesn't have to do much, Sam doesn't envy his brother one bit, the necessity of having to return to the scene of the accident that cost him his arm not likely to be high on his priority list.

o()o()o()o(O)o()o()o()o

"You okay over there?" Sam asks, the incessant jiggling of Dean's left knee for the past thirty minutes finally beginning to get on his last nerve.

"Uh huh," Dean answers noncommittally, his focus solely on the road ahead of him, not even aware of the intensity of his leg workout.

"Dean!" Sam barks several minutes later, the harshness of his voice causing his older brother to flinch, a sheepish look crossing his face once he realizes what he'd been doing.

The brothers had just crossed over the Colorado state line when Dean's leg had taken on a life of its own and Sam's pretty sure that if he has to put up with the nonstop motion the rest of way, Dean might just lose that leg as well.

"Yeah," the older Winchester drawls, sliding a glance towards the passenger's seat where Sam's face is projecting his little brother's mixture of concern and exasperation. "So, I might be just a tad bit on edge about this."

"Think maybe I should drive?" Sam asks, well aware of what his visions do to him, not knowing if Dean might get hit with something similar.

"I'm okay for now," Dean replies, not wanting to give up his job as driver since that would give his already smoking brain even more time to drive itself crazy. At least while he's behind the wheel he has to keep his focus on the road.

"So, you really think this will work?" Sam asks, trying to keep his brother engaged in conversation.

"Don't know, Sammy. I guess we just wait and see." In truth, he's torn between really wanting to know what that thing said to him and hoping he just gets a whole lot of bupkis; he's not sure which outcome would be worse.

The tension in the Impala heightens with each passing mile marker, and when they start seeing the road signs for Denver International Airport, Dean pulls over onto the side of the road, the shaking in his hand evident as he puts the car in park.

He leans his head back against the seat, closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, then gets out of the car and paces along the shoulder of the divided highway before silently making his way over to the passenger's side of the car and opening the door for Sam.

"Yeah," he says, his face pale and tight, "I think maybe you should take it from here. Not far now, maybe ten more miles or so."

"Yeah, okay," Sam says, nodding eagerly as he scrambles out of the car and into the driver's seat in order to complete their little impromptu Chinese Fire Drill, glancing over at Dean before pulling back onto the highway.

Dean takes a few seconds to try to compose himself, fighting down the panic of having to come face to face with the scene of his accident and pushing it back into the box with all of his other worries – his fear about what their little experiment is about to uncover; his fear that with only one arm he won't be able to protect Sam like he'd been taught to do; his fear that his disability will force him to retire from the one thing he does well.

Once he's given himself a stern talking to, his father's voice telling him to "suck it up and get the job done," he turns his attention back to the passing scenery, eyes peeled for the mile marker noted in his accident report.

"Okay, here. Pull over," he says dully, seeing the appropriate number at the side of the highway, his already pale face taking on an unearthly countenance when he sees the concrete barrier responsible for his crushed arm.

"Oh, fuck," he says under his breath, trying to swallow past the lump that's once again formed in his throat, his chest tightening in sympathy as well.

"It's okay, Dean," Sam says, trying to draw his brother's gaze away from the barrier that's holding his attention. "We'll get through this."

"Yeah," Dean says unconvincingly, swallowing a couple of times and nodding, finally tearing his eyes away from the large structure and latching on to Sam's face instead. "Okay."

"Ready?" Sam asks, giving his brother a nod of encouragement before unfolding himself from the car and collecting the necessary equipment from the trunk, waiting for Dean to join him before making their way over to where the Impala had finally come to rest against the large concrete structure.

The brothers work in well-rehearsed tandem to set up the intricately patterned protection circle where Dean will stand, as well as the rather boring circle that will contain Sam, placing the necessary bags of herbs around the circumference of Dean's protective ring.

By the time the groundwork has been laid, the last vestiges of daylight have burned off, the darkness comforting at least in the anonymity afforded the brothers, cloaking them from any curious passersby.

They take their positions in their respective circles, catching each other's eye and nodding in silent agreement to get this little party started. Sam pulls out the piece of paper that contains the words to the incantation he's painstakingly copied out of Bobby's book, penlight trained on the paper as he reads through the phrases he's rehearsed in a clear voice, his attention breaking every so often to make sure his brother is still okay.

When he reaches the end of page, he glances up, again catching Dean's questioning glance, both brothers giving a brief shrug when the night air around them remains quiet and still. Neither of them had been sure what to expect, but they'd at least thought something would happen.

But before Dean can utter any kinds of snarky complaints about Bobby's failed idea, he falls to his knees, raising his arm over his head in an attempt to protect himself from the onslaught of sensations swirling through his body.

Because while before he was getting brief flashes of images, now every sense is getting bombarded with memories of his accident.

Not only is he able to see the events as they unfold in real time, but he's able to hear the groaning and grinding of the car as it's pushed across the road and the scraping/crunching sounds of the concrete barrier indenting the car door.

He can smell the burning rubber from the tires as the Impala performs its reality-defying party tricks, just as the rotten egg stench of the demonic presence brings his gag reflex to life.

And he can once again feel his arm being crushed between the concrete barrier and the Impala's dashboard, the pain causing him to curl into himself and clutch at his residual limb, trying to pant through the pain and the panic washing over him in continued waves of unwelcomed memories.

This time when the woman leans back in, he can hear her words as clearly as if she were standing right next to him. Dean shivers reflexively, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure that she's not actually there, her words also causing his stomach to churn even faster than it had been.

And just as quickly as the sensory overload began, it dissipates, Dean sagging to the ground in a boneless heap, Sam rushing over to his side to check on his brother.

"Hey," Sam says, shaking Dean's shoulder. "Hey! You okay?"

Dean groans, slowly rolling over and taking a few deep calming breaths before holding out his hand in a silent request for Sam to help him back to his feet.

Sam acquiesces, making sure Dean's not in danger of taking a nose dive back to the ground before releasing his grip, his eyes glued to his older brother, searching Dean's face for any clues as to what the hell just happened.

"So? Did you hear what she said?" he asks, prompting Dean, who still looks shell-shocked by the whole experience.

Dean slowly raises his eyes to Sam and takes another deep breath, torn between wanting to share his newfound information and wanting to protect his brother from the content of the demons' words. Because even though he clearly heard every word she said, he now wishes he hadn't.

Working hard to keep his voice even, he keeps is eyes locked on Sam's face as he repeats her words.

"She said, 'You stay out of this. We need Sam.'"

 _ **To Be Continued…**_


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.**

"What the hell do I have to do with all of this?" Sam asks, his tone somewhere between defensiveness and genuine intrigue as he half-heartedly pushes his wilted salad around his plate.

The brothers had quickly packed up their materials and high-tailed it away from the scene of Dean's accident, planning to retrace their steps back to Bobby's, stopping at a roadside diner to regroup only after crossing back over the Colorado state line.

And while neither of them has eaten anything since mid-morning, their appetites remain AWOL, Dean's stomach still protesting the actual ordeal of reliving his accident and the demon's words while Sam's too busy trying to make sense of his role in this FUBAR situation to shove anything down his throat.

"And who is this 'we'? And why didn't she just kill you?" Sam asks, the questions pouring out of his mouth now that he's gotten over his initial shock. "What? It's a fair question," he adds with an apologetic shrug at Dean's incredulous look. "I mean, she had you pinned. Why not just finish the job?"

"Maybe I'm just not that important," Dean replies dully, using his French fry to paint a rather abstract ketchup scene on his placemat.

"Well, you were important enough to want to stop," Sam says, forehead still furrowed in deep thought.

"Yeah, but stop me from doing what?" Dean asks, his frustration levels rising as he feels that same niggling sensation that there's something lurking just out of his grasp.

"Maybe to stop you from coming out to find me?" Sam says, his tone more a question than a statement as he tries to make some sense of it all. "Maybe to stop you from telling me something?" he continues, head tilted to the side, staring off into middle distance as he tries to allow his brain free reign to make any applicable connections.

The boys sit in silence for a few moments before Sam breaks it with a monosyllabic "Huh", an accompanying downturn of his mouth evident when Dean glances back up at his face.

"What?" Dean asks, scrutinizing his little brother's face for any possible clues as to what the hell his geek brain is thinking.

"So, if this is all my fault," Sam begins, gesturing towards Dean's left arm, his words cut off by his brother.

"Sam," Dean growls, the warning in his tone of voice making it clear that the younger Winchester should drop that particular line of thinking like a hot potato.

"No, Dean. Just hear me out. What if the demon was trying to stop you from hunting? Like maybe if it injured you enough you'd be sidelined. And what if the demon killing Jess was an attempt to do the opposite to me? Draw me back into hunting. Cause I was already out of the life. Hadn't given it a second thought until after she died. Well, really, until I rescued you."

"You did _not_ rescue me," Dean quickly interjects, the indignation contained in his tone of voice mirrored by the look his face.

"Damsel in distress," Sam says pointing at Dean, a smug smirk on his face. "Cavalry," he says pointing at himself. "Deal with it."

"Shaddup," Dean drawls, his eyebrows furrowed tightly at the truth behind Sam's statement. Because yeah, his little brother did kind of have to save the day. _Son of a bitch._

"You think maybe dad knows anything about this?" Sam asks, the smirk gradually fading away as his brain cells continue to work overtime. "Where is dad, anyway?" he continues, airing out one of the questions that's been nagging him for some time now.

"How the hell should I know?" Dean replies with a shrug.

"Well, aren't you practically his Mini Me?"

"Shut up," Dean mutters again, failing to come up with a better retort for his brother's comment. "It's dad. Could be in the middle of a hunt somewhere. Could be holed up sleeping off a bender. Man's a mystery."

While the words are technically true, Dean doesn't believe them any more than Sam does. Because given what the boys now know, there's more than a fighting chance that their father has somehow gotten wind of the same intel and has been working his own angles.

The brothers sit in silence for a few more minutes, each one stewing in his own juices before Dean makes the executive decision to call it a night and find a nearby motel to rest their overstimulated brains.

"Come on," he says, fishing some bills out of his wallet, "let's go find somewhere for the night. Get some shut eye."

Sam eyes his brother suspiciously, more than a little surprised that he doesn't want to just power on through and get back to Bobby's as fast as possible while putting additional distance between himself and the scene of his accident.

When he puts those same thoughts into words, Dean gives a shrug, mumbling something about needing to figure out what their next step is going to be.

In truth, he's not all that excited to return to Bobby's just yet, not all that thrilled to let the older hunter in on the demon's words. He'd texted Bobby to let him know that at least they were still alive after their little experiment, but had said nothing else about his revelations. Not because he doesn't want the older hunter to know what happened, but more because he doesn't know quite exactly what to say yet.

He trusts Bobby; would trust him with his life – has, in fact, on several occasions. It's just that this is big. Really big. Or might be, depending on what the demon had actually meant.

And if it tried to get him out of the way, who else might it go after?

So he thinks it safer for all parties involved if he and Sam just lay low for right now, try to figure out some more pieces to this clusterfuck of a puzzle.

He just hopes he's not making the wrong decision.

o()o()o()o(O)o()o()o()o

"I have to warn Sam!"

Sam awakens with a start, his tenuous grasp on sleep broken by the repetitive mumblings of his older brother. He lies still for a few moments, then clearly hears Dean's words again, the desperation evident in his voice and the urgency of his words mirrored by the restless motions of his limbs as he tosses and turns in his bed.

"Nonononono!"

Sam wrestles with himself for a few additional moments, torn between wanting to see how this plays out and wanting to rescue his older brother from wherever his dreaming mind has taken him, finally deciding on the latter once he switches on the light and catches the mixture of fear and anguish on his brother's sleeping face.

"Dean! Hey!" Sam calls out softly. When his words fail to bring Dean back to the waking world, he climbs out of bed and pads over to his brother's side, gently shaking his shoulder.

And regrets it an instant later when Dean lands a glancing blow to his jaw, Sam having forgotten about his brother's inherent self-defense setting while in the throes of slumber.

"Dean!" he says with more force, this time being sure to stand clear of his brother's swinging radius.

"Wha?" Dean mumbles, blinking confusedly as he comes back to consciousness. "You okay?" he asks, sleepily rubbing his eyes while his brain kicks in, not failing to notice Sam's continued rubbing of his jaw.

"Yeah," Sam says, huffing out a laugh, "just forgot about your right hook."

"Oh, sorry," Dean mumbles, looking slightly chagrined. "At least I didn't have my knife," he adds with a wry twist of his lips, grateful that his beloved knife is still tucked in his duffel bag instead of under his pillow.

"Uh huh," Sam grunts in noncommittal agreement, more interested in trying to figure out what had gotten his brother so worked up in the first place. Assuming, of course, that it's more than what they'd learned a few short hours ago.

"What's up?" Dean asks, squinting against the bright light in the room, brains cells still scrambling to come to attention.

"You," Sam says, taking a seat on his bed, leaning his forearms on his thighs in order to get a look at Dean on the bed across from him. "You were saying some stuff. Looked pretty intense."

"It didn't have anything to do with the Doublemint Twins, did it?" Dean asks, eyebrow raised in a show of mock seriousness. "Cause if so, I will be very disappointed that you woke me up."

Sam rolls his eyes and gives a half-hearted snort, shaking his head to the negative. "No. Nothing like that."

"Spill it, Sammy," Dean says when Sam just sits there and looks at him for a few moments, his little brother's puppy dog eyes searching his face so intensely that he feels it necessary to squirm.

"You, uh, you kept saying, 'I have to warn Sam'. And then you were tossing and turning, calling out 'No' over and over."

Sam follows his brother's face as it expresses a quick succession of emotions – the initial confusion as he contemplates his own words sliding into a brief moment of recognition before he's able to school his features once again.

If it were anyone else, they might have missed that brief flash before Dean had been able to get his expression back under control, but Sam's had a lifetime of studying Dean. It's practically been his major.

"What?" Dean asks defensively, shrinking slightly under Sam's intense narrow-eyed gaze.

"What do you mean 'What'?" Sam fires back.

"What do you mean 'What do I mean'?"

Sam rolls his eyes at Dean's attempt at evasive maneuvers, huffing out a breath that clears his bangs from his face. "I know you, man. I know you know something. I saw it on your face."

"It was probably just gas," Dean says, eyes skittering away from Sam. Damn it, but his little brother is perceptive. If it weren't him that Sam were trying to analyze, Dean might even be impressed.

As it is, however, the older Winchester is loath to divulge the meaning behind his dreamscape mumblings. He's not quite sure yet what it was that he was supposed to warn Sam about, but he has no doubt that it's linked with the demon and his trek out to California.

What he does recall, however, is the meaning behind his mumbled "No's" and his restless sleep.

Even now, just thinking about thinking about it, his chest tightens, his breathing coming shallower as a cold sweat breaks out along his hairline.

Because he'd been reliving his time in the hospital, the previous hazy memories now in sharp focus, granting him full awareness of his hellish experience.

Recalling the surgeons talking to him about how badly damaged his arm really was and how sorry they were that there wasn't more they could do to save it.

Recalling waking up after surgery, thinking his arm was still there because of the continued pain, only to realize it wasn't when his right hand's groping finds nothing but empty air and a heavily bandaged stump.

Recalling the moments of panic when he realizes that his life has been irrevocably altered.

And then recalling the subsequent days in the hospital. Trying to figure out how to live his life with one arm. How he'd be able to tie his shoes and button his shirt, let alone continue his life's work of saving people and hunting things.

How he'd be able to protect Sam.

Because besides being a hunter, the only other job he's taken pride in is keeping Sammy safe.

And if the demon is to be believed, his job is nowhere near finished.

 _ **End of Part 1**_

 _ **To Be Continued… (following a brief hiatus)**_


End file.
